


Name Game

by codswallop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Coital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So what’s with all the Gavin--Graham--Geoff business? It’s not cute, you know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



> Very minor spoilers for series 3.
> 
> Thanks to fengirl88 for the prompt, and to ariadnes_string for providing reason #2.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock moaned, hot and muffled against the skin of his throat. “Oh god. Right there, harder, please, Lestrade-- Lestrade!” His voice rose to a high-pitched shout, and Greg shifted his weight onto one elbow so he could clamp a hand over Sherlock’s mouth without losing his rhythm. 

“Quiet,” he said, half-urgent, half-laughing as Sherlock sucked two of his fingers into his mouth and began to fellate them, keeping time with the quick sharp thrusts of Greg’s hips. It should have been ridiculous, it should have been distracting, but instead the weird little twist of unexpected extra stimulation tipped him right over into the point of no return. 

“Oh, bugger, that’s, I-I’m going to--” Greg shut his eyes and grimaced, trying to stave off the inevitable, but Sherlock was going wild beneath him, chasing his own release as if hell-bent on beating him there, and seconds later everything fell apart and dissolved into a hot pulsing rush. Wet heat on his stomach; Sherlock clenching around him; his own stifled cries of agonised pleasure; and then blissful panting silence, muscles quaking and a warm and fuzzy halo over everything.

Sherlock bit down on his fingers, and Greg withdrew them from his mouth and sighed and started to pull carefully away. “No, not yet,” Sherlock slurred, hooking a leg over Greg’s back to hold him in. “Stay. Mmm. Lestrade. Lestrade Lestrade Lestrade. Either you got better at that while I was away, or-- What? Why are you making that face, I don’t-- Hey!” He hissed with displeasure as Greg threw off his clinging limbs and got up to go and deal with the condom and wash up a bit.

“You _do know_ my name,” he called to Sherlock from the sink, running the tap until the water turned warm. He dampened a flannel and used it on himself, rinsed it, wrung it out, dampened it again and carried it back to the bed.

“Of course I know your name,” Sherlock said, stretching his muscles out in a series of elegant arches and twists and then sprawling out again with a sigh, limp and languid and lazy. The sight made Greg want to pounce on him again at once. Or else deck him. It was always a bit of a toss-up. “It’s Lestrade.”

Deck him. Definitely. Greg settled for attacking him ungently with the flannel, straddling his hips and pinning him down with an elbow to his windpipe while he spluttered and struggled. “Oh, fine, if that’s what you-- _Greg_ , then. Greg!”

“That’s better.” Greg eased off him at once and gave him an approving slap on the chest. “So what’s with all the Gavin--Graham--Geoff business? It’s not cute, you know.”

“It serves a purpose. Three of them, in fact. Well, four. Three and half.”

Greg waited, sitting back on his heels.

Sherlock sighed. “One: it frees up data space if I only think of you as Lestrade.”

“Bullshit. You’re not a bloody computer no matter how much you like to pretend you are. Strike that one off the list.”

“Fine. Two: People will hardly suspect we’re sleeping together if they think I can’t be bothered to remember your first name.”

Greg considered it. “Point,” he conceded. “I suppose. They’re going to figure it out soon enough regardless if I keep dashing off from crime scenes the minute you text me, though.”

“Quite. Er...sorry about that. Again. Anyway, moving on, two and a half: I don’t like the name Greg.”

Greg swatted at him with the flannel. “It’s my _name_ , you rude bastard!”

“I can’t help that. I simply don’t care for it, it doesn’t suit you at all. You’re Lestrade, you’ve always been Lestrade to me and I don’t like changing it. _Lestrade,_ ” Sherlock repeated in a low, sensual purr, rising up on his elbows, narrowing his eyes and drawing a fingertip down the centre of Greg’s chest, making him shiver. “I’m aware it’s a ridiculous non-reason, however,” Sherlock went on in his normal voice, flopping back down and crossing his arms behind his head. “Hence the half.”

“Hmm. So...three and a half, though? What’s the last one, then?”

Sherlock just smiled at him drowsily, shaking his head. 

“What?” Greg demanded. “Tell me.”

Sherlock curled over on one side and feigned sleep. Greg had learned, from years of experience, that threats, cajoling, physical violence, and tickling were all not only useless in cases like these but unnecessary: the best way to get Sherlock to talk was to pretend you didn’t care. Drove him mad. He clearly wanted to tell the fourth--third and a halfth--reason, else he’d never have mentioned there was one.

“Fine,” Greg said with a shrug, climbing over onto his own side of the bed and turning his back on Sherlock. “Night, then.”

The ensuing silence stretched on for so long that he nearly did fall asleep; strange patterns of thoughts began circling round in his head. Anyway, he could wait. He’d just waited two fucking years. This was nothing.

An ostentatious Sherlock-sigh yanked him back from the verge of sleep. “You have all the sense of curiosity of a tree stump. No wonder I have to solve all your cases for you."

"Mmhm," Greg agreed, hiding a smile.

Sherlock sighed again. "I like. Winding. You. Up," he enunciated softly into Greg's ear.

“Oh, you don’t say. There’s a shocker.”

“Yes, the sex is significantly better when you’re frustrated.”

Greg wasn’t in any way surprised to hear that Sherlock liked it rough, but it was a bit disturbing to think that he was being deliberately manipulated to achieve that result. Then again, most things about interacting with Sherlock were disturbing. He turned to frown at him. “I’m pissed off at you enough as it is. You don’t need to mess with my name to get that one down.” 

“No, but it’s efficient, amusing, and works toward other means at the same time. See reasons one through two-point-five.”

“Fine then.” Greg gave up and settled back into his pillow. “Call me what you like; I give up.”

“George,” Sherlock mused. “Guillaume. Griffin, Gustave, Giles.”

“You’re wasting them,” Greg murmured sleepily. “Already gave you everything I’ve got for one day.”

“Storing them up for future reference. Go to sleep, then, if you must; I want you well rested for the morning.”

“Say my name again.”

“Lestrade,” said Sherlock, rather sweetly, rubbing his face into the short bristly hairs at Greg’s nape, and went on crooning it until he drifted off smiling. “Lestrade. Lestrade. Lestrade.”


End file.
